


Jukebox the Gomens

by ReleaseTheSheep



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Album: Off to the Races (Jukebox the Ghost), I wrote this for my best friend but you can read it too, M/M, Songfic, jukebox the ghost - Freeform, just two immortal beings discovering each other across the ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReleaseTheSheep/pseuds/ReleaseTheSheep
Summary: Love across time, and across the 10 songs of an album.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 3





	1. Jumpstarted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CurrieBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurrieBelle/gifts).



> I'm not going to explain myself. Okay I guess I can say that this is based on an album by the band Jukebox the Ghost called [Off to the Races](https://open.spotify.com/album/5oErwuqKXdPtKzYLzD6sF5?si=i47gVKHhRKuRcwQh4UbaTQ). It just fits these two very well. Or maybe I've just made it fit them, in my head. Enjoy!

_Strictly business, nothing more..._

Crawly watched from under a bush as Eve handed the apple to Adam. Why it was such a big deal that she had taken the fruit from Crawly in the first place was a mystery to the snake, but it had been his orders, so he had carried them out. Not that that was necessarily why he ever did anything, but in this particular case the imposition on his schedule of basking on rocks and toying with various small rodents had been minimal. So he had done it.

So what?

_Well, job done _, he thought, and slithered away.__

~~

Later that day, things had started to become clearer. He snaked his way up the garden wall and changed into his humanoid form next to the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

A nervous, uncomfortable chuckle came from beside him. Crawly continued to look out over the wall, into the vast desert beyond.

"Sorry, what was that?"

_As I held the door  
What a saint walked in_

Crawly turned to face the angel. "I said, 'that went down like a lead balloon.'" He looked at the being next to him then, taking in the cloud of nearly-white hair, the softish shape of the body, the bright blue eyes. _Bloody cherubic._

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

"Ah, well- er- well I-"

"You did! It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?"

"Erm, you see-"

"Lost it already, have you?"

And then the angel said something which Crawly was not expecting. In a timid, quiet voice, he replied, "I gave it away."

_Oh  
My poor soul  
Goes flying like a cannonball_

"You what?"

"I gave it away!"

 _Well._ Crawly could feel his heart beginning to beat faster in his chest. _Here we go._

_Off to the races, got my love jumpstarted_  
The only one I wa-aant is  
Yoo-oo-ooo-ooou! 


	2. Everybody's Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gosh Aziraphale, how do so many pine trees fit inside your bookshop?

"Crowley, why do you suppose so many human songs are either about love, or drinking?"

Crowley looks up from his newspaper, one eyebrow quirking over the rim of his sunglasses. "What'd you mean, angel?"

Aziraphale fiddles with a cufflink so as not to have to meet the demon's eyes, even through the lenses of those damnable glasses. "Well, I've tried listening recently to some of your... bebop, and I've noticed some recurring themes. What do you suppose is behind them?"

Crowley considers. He folds the paper and discards it on one side of the couch, clasping his hands together and leaning forward, the picture of concentration. "I reckon it's probably got something to do with the fact that alcohol and love make humans sort of... feel things. And then when they feel things, they try to get the feelings out, and one of the ways they do that is by writing songs."

Aziraphale frowns a bit at that for a moment, then responds, "You think so? Alcohol has never made me feel the need to write music. Nor has love. Although I suppose both of those things act a bit differently on the likes of us than they do on humans, don't they?"

"Yeah," answers Crowley, and swallows, shaking out the paper again and hiding himself behind it. "And I mean, they don't all write music when they feel those things. Just some of them. There're a lot of humans, angel. Can you imagine how many songs there would be if every single time a human felt something strongly they wrote a song about it? Blimey. I'd never get to sorting through them all."

"Have you sorted through all the songs that do exist?"

"The good ones, yeah." Aziraphale looks doubtful. "Look, that's beside the point, angel. It would be a hell of a lot more songs than there are. And there are plenty. What were we talking about?"

As soon as the question has left his lips, Crowley regrets asking it. Aziraphale just smiles and says, "We were talking about _why_ humans write about love so much. And drink. I wonder: do you think it's because they're lonely, dear?"

"Urgk," comes Crowley's voice from behind the floppy safety of the newspaper. He swallows hard, then says, a bit too loudly, "What makes you think that, angel?"

"Oh, I don't know, just a thought that came to me." Aziraphale is blushing. _Because I always feel a bit lonely when I'm drunk, if you're not there_ , he doesn't say. _Because you're the only one who can make me feel a little less lonely_ , he certainly doesn't say. He only reddens further.

Crowley, on the other side of the room, resists the impulse to wipe his brow at the close call. Yes, he's drawn to the angel and his heavenly light like a moth is to a flame. He knows this, he's been over it, tracked the path of this line of thinking into his brain, in Magnanni boots and on his knees and on his belly. But Aziraphale doesn't need to _know_ that. 

"I suppose we should be grateful," Aziraphale hazards.

Crowley grits his teeth behind the paper, and utters an entirely too committal-sounding, "Yeah? Why's that?"

Aziraphale looks down at his restless hands, which are now also blushing. "That we don't... feel those sorts of things." He tugs at a loose string on his waistcoat which he has just unknowingly miracled into existence in order to fidget with it. "Seems like an awful lot of work. And-" he sighs- "pain." 

Crowley winces. "Yeah angel," he agrees, blinking away moisture and cursing the chef cutting onions in the restaurant down the road, "good thing we don't have to deal with all that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're hopeless gooves, I'm afraid. But they'll get better!


End file.
